MayDay
by Alicamel
Summary: Inspired by Tara and Buffy's conversation in 'The Body.' Tara reflects on her mother, Joyce, Buffy and Dawn, and the past. Spoilers for Season 5.


Inspired by Buffy and Tara's conversations during "The Body." Spoilers for Season 5.  
  
Kinda weird, but it was totally fun to write, though it took me forever to come up with a title. Taking great liberties with Tara's background, but hey, like they've told us much anyway. ; P  
  
Please let me know what you think!  
  
  
  
May Day  
  
*********  
  
From her first hazy childhood memory, to the breezy Mayday morning of the funeral, Tara knew her mother was dying. No one said anything, because no one says anything to a six/eleven/seventeen year old *child*, but she knew, just the same.  
  
[after the funeral she sat on top of the grave for five hours, the book on her lap opened to the page that would bring her mother back to her]  
  
Cold winter dawns and wet spring mornings, balmy summer evenings and windy autumn afternoons, and all the time, her mother *dying* and *fading* and turning into the will'o'wisps she read about in books.  
  
[it took a while, but eventually she learnt to think of her mother without bursting into tears]  
  
And breezy Mayday mornings, with the town maypole in the distance, her mother's body cold and still and empty, placed in the ground, with the dirt and worms and -  
  
[it took a while, but eventually she learnt to bottle everything up, because after a few weeks, everyone's really sick of hearing about your pain all the time and]  
  
It was still sudden. And it wasn't. And it really, really was.  
  
[after the funeral she sat on top of the grave for five hours]  
  
Baby to child to teenager, and god, she wasn't ready to be an adult. Not yet.  
  
[the book on her lap opened to the page]  
  
Her mother was always there. Her mother was always dying. Her mother was already gone.  
  
[that would bring her mother back to her]  
  
- - = = * * * = = - -  
  
Tara knew what it was like to loose a mother, and although it was different for Buffy and Dawn (it was always different) she knew some parts would be the same.  
  
Like the part where you wake up in the morning, and for just one second, she's still alive, until you remember that she's not. And in that second is an eternity of freshly cooked waffles and arguments about curfews and -  
  
She remembers the parts where you were scared, because you're not ready to be an adult, and you don't want to be one. The parts where you were angry, because you're not ready to be an adult and you have to be one.  
  
She always knew her mother was dying.  
  
And it wasn't sudden when she died. And it was. And it really, really, wasn't.  
  
- - = = * * * = = - -  
  
Perhaps, Tara used to think when she would sit on the forbidden roof and smoke and stare into the hazy night, perhaps it wouldn't really make a difference if she brought her back. Perhaps her mother wouldn't be mad that Tara had disobeyed everything she had ever taught her. Perhaps she would be glad. Perhaps she wouldn't care.  
  
[Perhaps, she wouldn't even be her mother.]  
  
And then,  
  
[light the next cigarette with the stub of the first]  
  
then Tara would be happier. She could be a child again,  
  
[thought she's eighteen next month anyway]  
  
and she wouldn't have to be a mother to her brother,  
  
[who was two years older than her]  
  
and she wouldn't have to be a housewife to her own father,  
  
[who locked himself away and prayed to God until his lips cracked and bled]  
  
and the other kids at school would lose that pitying look and go back to hating and mocking her as they had always done before.  
  
- - = = * * * = = - -  
  
There's something there between them now. A direct connection they never had. Her and Buffy, deprived of mothers far too soon.  
  
[but not the same because she met Joyce and she liked Joyce, and she wanted Joyce for her very own]  
  
And Willow and Xander, they weren't a part of this club, because it was something special, a connection, an unspoken understanding. And Anya didn't understand death and Giles was old and didn't count, and she prayed to all the Goddesses that Willow never lost her mother, not just to spare her the pain, but also because if she did, then Willow would be a part of the club too, and it would all be ruined.  
  
[because Joyce was alive in a way her mother had never been, even when her mother was still breathing]  
  
And she would look at Dawn and think, I understand you. I know what it's like to loose something you never really had, and I know what it's like to never fit in, and I know what it's like to be you, to be different, to be outside the world where you live and breathe and love and die.  
  
- - = = * * * = = - -  
  
After the funeral she sat on her mother's grave for five hours, the book on her lap open to the page that would bring her mother back to her.  
  
The dirt was cold and slightly damp beneath her, and the scent of flowers hung heavily in the air around her. Endless well-wishers who came and watched her placed in the ground, and then left and went back to their little lives, their 9-5 jobs, their houses and mortgages and squalling children.  
  
After the funeral she sat on her mother's grave for five hours, the book on her lap open to the page that would bring her mother back to her.  
  
And the sun set and the clouds covered the mayday sky and the rain fell heavily turning the dirt around her to mud islands amidst an infinity of tiny streams. It soaked her. From her almost-but-not-quiet waist-length hair, to her black funeral clothing and the pools of water forming inside her shoes.  
  
And the tears didn't show, quite so bad, anymore.  
  
After the funeral she sat on her mother's grave for five hours, the book on her lap open to the page that would bring her mother back to her.  
  
And then she fell onto it, book thrown aside, spread out, fingers digging into the dirt possessively.  
  
"They put her in the *ground.*"  
  
She hugged her mothers grave, vigorously, angrily, jealously, despairingly, as if her mother would be able to hug her back, would be able to tell her it was okay, would know what she was doing.  
  
After the funeral she sat on her mother's grave for five hours, the book on her lap open to the page that would bring her mother back to her.  
  
After the funeral  
  
[and god, it seemed like it would last forever]  
  
she sat  
  
[legs crossed, black dress riding up around her waist, but did she care?]  
  
on her mother's grave  
  
[They put her in the ground and I know how you feel Dawnie, because they put *her* in the ground too and it isn't *fair*]  
  
for five hours,  
  
[days, weeks, years, eternities]  
  
the book on her lap  
  
[heavy too, thick with dust, unused and burned, later, after]  
  
open to the page  
  
[writing worn away by the ceaseless movement of her dirt stained finger]  
  
that would bring her mother  
  
[please]  
  
back to  
  
[bring]  
  
her.  
  
[back.] 


End file.
